


armageddon

by markiafc



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Character Study, Dooku: Jedi Lost (Star Wars), Gen, Precognition, Rarepair, either way, i also can't decide if this is shippy or not orz, sticking my hand into the protobranch arc, they care about each other very much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26721118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markiafc/pseuds/markiafc
Summary: Most species have their own Armageddon myths. We learned many of them as Initiates. Understand someone’s fears, we were told, and you will know how to help them. Zang used to hate it, all that fire and damnation, but me… I reveled in it. I never took them seriously, you see. They were stories. Fables. I knew the universe would endure, and if it didn’t, it wouldn’t be because of gods or powers beyond our understanding.And yet… The scene that greeted us as we raced toward the entrance of the hospital was worse than any apocalypse. It was real. It was raw.— Excerpt adapted fromDooku: Jedi Lostby Cavan Scott
Relationships: Dooku & Sifo-Dyas (Star Wars), Dooku/Sifo-Dyas (Star Wars)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	armageddon

Sifo-Dyas stood, seventeen and small, watching the sky fall.

He stood, and saw overhead the sovereign sun settled in the center of a despot’s dais dubbed their sky. There, the gas body governed; gowned in garnets gathered from Gazzari grounds and blood-opals born from Obas blaze-storms, crowned in rubies ripped from the retinas of Riflor goddesses and malachites mothered by Mustafar herself. It was a lone sun that lounged like a fat and full tyrant, heavy with hubris, bloated with the bold brightness that allowed Protobranch its prosperity. It was an ancient absolute overseeing from its dreamsilk dais — soft and shimmering baby blues sprawling across the atmosphere without a wrinkle in sight, so the planet could hide under the delicate and diaphanous skirts of the sky like a child; their sky embroidered with cerlin silver, weavable alloy pieces with light lilac sheens, showing the suspended cities in glimmering quality, glossy chromium.

Such was the glory of Protobranch, the paradise above. 

Sifo-Dyas watched as the scissored storm cut clean through the sewings of repulsorlift engines and antigrav platforms. The threads holding these cerlin cities to the sky-skirts loosened. The metallic disks sagged on their stitchings. And then paradise above was hell below; civilization slipping to free-for-all fallings like pearls pattering down snapped necklaces, crystals crashing to the call of gravity, shattering shattering.

_“Sifo.” Dooku said instinctively, sharp and severe with concern as he shifted on his feet, worn boots shuffling under the sudden weight of his absent-eyed friend. He adjusted his arms around Sifo next, coaxing the slack body to slump against his with a greater sense of comfort. Sifo, who was once as heavy as Dooku was. But no more, Dooku learned as he held his dear friend up as best he could. “Sifo, what’s wrong?”_

“The storm,” Sifo-Dyas breathed, and the soil sighed with him. It was the sound of a single wind sweeping, a hush seeping to the surface like a shallow tide, a sea that surrounded the he who sought not to swim. Sifo-Dyas simply did not know how. So he stood, and listened. And the country of cereal with their ears and ears dripping in nugget golds listened back. 

Their sigh, was a song swelling across continents of cultivation. Their sigh, was a song singing so high it silenced him whole. Their sigh, was a song starting where the sovereign sun first rose in a note, solo. It was unseeable fingertips skimming over strings the spines of straw stalks, strumming the instrument that was acres of land, that was wheat en masse — screams stirring stretches of fertile fields, shrieks swaying flexible spines to tune. Sifo-Dyas sought not to sing with, he simply did not have the skill. But neither did the cities of songsters and their cries. The choir’s chorus was a manifold melody cresting in a red rainbow that arched overhead, blood streaking by, till the sun dipped and died in the notes’ nigh last lies.

Such was the grave of Protobranch, the catastrophe performed.

_“Sifo. Sifo, look at me. Focus on me.” Dooku muttered to his friend with a quiet edge. He knew Sifo was listening not to his voice, but he carried on regardless. Grunting, he lowered his closest friend to the floors with considerable care, all while muttering more of his meaningless words with a stern sort of softness. “I have you.” He murmured as Sifo’s knees kissed the floors. “I have you right here, Si.” Next was his body laid down to stable ground on his side, light and gentle. “I have you right here...” And lastly, Dooku’s own robe eased under Sifo’s head, folded to serve as a pillow._

“I can’t stop them.” Sifo-Dyas mouthed, his sound strangled by the faraway sight of crops and corpses. Witness this, seer: the agriculture of an apocalypse. A core world’s worth of bodies ploughing the earth, seeding broken bones and flattened flesh and bursting blood. Sowing death, sowing destruction, sowing devastation. Then reap the staggering success of floating cities turned mass graves. Greed would bear the rotting fruit of grief and docility despair. “Why can’t I stop them, Dooku?”

_“We will. Together.” Dooku promised. He tucked Sifo’s long fringe back behind his ear, and then dabbed the corner of his sleeve where beads of sweat formed on Sifo's temple. The lines on Dooku's face were deep as he repeated his movements over, the corners of his mouth tight, his hand working methodically whilst he watched over his dearest friend. His long fingers brushed over Sifo’s brow in a tender sort of touch, and it was as effective as it was fond; a measure of affection truly befitting one of Dooku’s character. He was no bonfire blazing and flaring to mark the way home, only a sentinel of a man, the most ardent of lighthouses for the fishermen folk lost in fire._

And such was Sifo-Dyas, seventeen and small, waking slow and sluggish to Dooku’s quiet care.

**Author's Note:**

> god i enjoyed jedi lost loads, and im stuck w sifo dyas feelings, so much broken prophet feelings. but there's like next to no content about him ashabdadbahb so rip i'll uhh try to make it myself


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